Total pages in book: 145
Estimated words: 138274 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 691(@200wpm)___ 553(@250wpm)___ 461(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 138274 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 691(@200wpm)___ 553(@250wpm)___ 461(@300wpm)
Alpaca.
“Mickey, we gotta turn back. I gotta bad—”
Mickey slapped that crap into silence, hard enough that his palm vibrated inside his glove. “I got business here, and you want to get into business, so we’re coming to take care of business, you fuckin’ asshole.”
As snowflakes swirled, Evan put his bare hand on the side of his face. “Why you gotta do that shit?”
“ ’Cuz you’re doing this shit.” He motioned back and forth between them, the sleeve on his parka flapping. “Now, come the fuck on. Fuck.”
Stomping off through the snow, he was not about to tell an adult male that he needed to put his goddamn mittens on. Besides, if Evan got frostbite, he probably wouldn’t even know what it was.
Ten fucking years, Mickey thought. Ten years and he was getting nowhere in the organization or with their uncle. He was twenty-nine years old, still roughing up idiots who didn’t pay when they lost at the book, still pushing small bags on the street. His pops had run the family at this age, and had been in charge right up until the old man had been shot twelve times on 19th Street.
Mickey was the fucking son of a legend, and there was a birthright to that. If his pops hadn’t been murdered over that territory dispute with the Southend gangs, Uncle wouldn’t be more’n a second-in-command of some crew on the secondhand side of the river—
Snap.
Mickey froze and scanned the woods.
“WhatwasthatohmyGod—”
“I stepped on something.” If he hit the guy again, Evan was likely to start crying. “Fuck, relax.”
As another lick of lightning flickered down, Mickey searched for true movement in the forest, not the shit that was an illusion. It was hard to tell, so he was going to stay where he was… until he was sure what was around them was safe. Well, safe-ish. Who the fuck knew what kind of booby-traps could be out here?
“Mickey, I know what you’re doing—and we don’t want to mess with him.”
Scanning. More scanning. “I’m just gonna pay the guy a little visit. Talk to him.”
“You’re not here for conversation.” When Mickey glanced over his shoulder, Evan’s eyes narrowed like he wasn’t completely stupid. “I’m not completely stupid.”
Time to get moving again. “Whatever.”
“Why don’t I get to have a gun? You never let me carry a gun.” Evan tapped him on the shoulder. “C’mon. Let’s not do this—”
“You know what—just fuckin’ go.” Mickey took out the key remote to the car they’d left up on the county road. “Wait for me like a pussy, while I do the work.”
“I’m not leaving you.” Evan shook his head. “I know nobody thinks nothin’ of me, but this guy, he’s dangerous. There’s something wrong with him.”
“He’s just another one of Uncle’s enforcers.”
“No, he’s not. And you brought me ’cuz you know nobody else would come with you.”
No, Mickey thought. He’d brought Evan because nobody else listened to the guy. But trading that kind of go-nowhere-gossip for what was supposed to be halfway decent backup wasn’t working too good.
Punching the remote into his cousin’s chest and holding it there, Mickey leaned in. “I’ll handle this. Like a man. You go wait in the fucking car. Like a goddamn child.”
Lightning fanned out across the base of the cloud cover again, and in the icy blue reflection, the fear on Evan’s face was like a third person standing between them.
“Go on,” Mickey ordered as his own resolve wobbled. “You’re so fucking weak.”
“I had a dream last night—”
“I hope she was good-looking.” Mickey pushed the car fob into the front pocket of his cousin’s parka. “In real life, you’re only pulling shit.”
“You’re gonna die, Mickey.”
“Great. At least then, I’m not dealing with you.”
“You don’t have to prove yourself to Uncle, you know. You’re enough as you are—”
Mickey shoved at his cousin’s shoulders, knocking him backwards into the snow. “Fucking asshole. I don’t have to prove myself to nobody.”
It was a goddamn relief to turn away—until he realized he was making a lot of noise with his heavy breathing, and that wasn’t the smartest move. He was also letting the pissed-off get the best of him, and that was not only dangerous, it put him on Evan’s basement-level, low-fi operating mentals. He was better than that.
He was the son of the rightful head of the family—
As movement registered in his peripheral vision, he glanced over his shoulder again. Evan was up on his feet, snowpack falling from his ass in clumps like he was taking a shit and it was coming out in black and white. With his hands tucked under his chin like he’d seen the boogeyman and his eyes all anime-tragic, Mickey was reminded that just because you were related to someone didn’t mean you had nothing in common with them.
Leaving his cousin, he needed to keep his focus where it had to stay so he put his hand into the front pocket of his snow pants. The USB drive was right where he’d stashed it, ready to be used in the second half of this operation. A gun to the head of some techie had gotten the job done, a fake data trail created on the blockchain making it look like bitcoin had been stolen on a large scale from the family’s digital wallets. He didn’t need to understand how or what was being typed on that fucking keyboard or scrolled on that monitor. All that mattered was that his instructions as to the outcome were followed, and he knew they had been: He had the IT guy’s wife tied up in his secret apartment on 21st Avenue—and hey, he was gonna let the Mrs. go, as long as his uncle came to the right conclusions when Mickey “found” the drive and turned it in—